Right Where I Belong
by chibiness87
Summary: Or: Five Times Sherlock Holmes Proposes to Molly Hooper (and one time she proposes to him). T for Language. Sherlock/Molly. One shot.


**Right where I belong, or: Five times Sherlock Holmes proposes to Molly Hooper (and one time she proposes to him)** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T** Language, mainly.  
 **Spoilers:** None  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more intelligent people than me.

 **A/N:** Things I should be doing:- 1: Writing Masters Essays for uni. 2: Ironing uniform. 3: Writing chapters for Love is a Battlefield. 4: Writing chapters for Justice.  
What I did instead:- This. *sigh*

* * *

I.

Sherlock watched as Molly walked towards the row of waiting cabs, a soft sigh on his breath. In hindsight, the situation was not exactly what you would call conductive to the starting of a romantic enterprise. At the very least, it definitely wasn't supposed to have gone down like this.

The large ball had been nothing but a handy excuse, if he was being completely honest. An associate of Mycroft had decided to hold the flamboyant affair for the up and comings, and Sherlock had delighted Molly by securing an invite for himself, and then asking her to accompany him, because, quote, he was being forced to attend this soiree against his will by Mycroft for the good of the country, and having her there with him would not only make the event less dull, but would also make it less likely that he'd wake up the next morning in a cell for having punched a high and mighty toff head, unquote. That he had manged to get said invites of his own will through… unprecedented channels, and for a case (something even Mycroft was unaware of), he decided not to tell her.

He had picked out her dress for her, something she had protested until she had put the gown on, and then had simply stared at him with such wonder in her eyes he started to shift uncomfortably. Seeming to sense his agitation, she had simply smiled, and given him a soft, "Thanks, Sherlock," as she passed him on the way to the counter to pick up her keys.

Two hours into the tediousness of the party (he refused to use the word ball), he had spotted the suspect he was pursuing, and had managed to get a tip off to Lestrade without anyone being the wiser. That had been about thirty minutes ago, and by his estimation, the good folk of NSY would be appearing to break up this shindig in the next five minutes; he desperately wants Molly away from here before that occurred, should things go a bit south.

He has learnt that it happens more often than not.

Looking around for his pathologist, (while he had not lied and said he found these types of events beyond dull and mainly kept to the side-lines, she seemed to have adopted her conference persona, and had been quite happily holding court with various groups all night,) he spots her being joined by a group of young men. Sons of various Lords, he's pretty certain, and tries to ignore the rumble in his chest that spoke of possession and jealousy.

Sliding up to her, he wraps an arm around her waist, disguising her startled jump with a slight kiss to her brow.

The son of Lord… Peters? Piers? P something, he's sure, glances at the two of them, and tips his head in his direction. "Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe. I heard you were in Siberia. Apparently I was mistaken. And who might this beauty be?"

He spots her flush, eyes glancing down the floor, suddenly shy. With a nod of his own, Sherlock says, "This is Molly."

"Oh. Molly." The way the posh git rolls her name around her mouth sends every protective instinct he has into overdrive. Unaware, the man continues, "And how do you know…"

Before he can say her name again, Sherlock buts in. "We're engaged."

"What?" This comes not only from most of the men there, but also a high pitched question from the woman by his side too.

Turning to face her, he gives her a quick wink. "I mean, you'll marry me, right?"

"Sherlock!" She thumps him in the chest. Hard. Hissing under her breathe, she cries, "We haven't even been on a date!"

He grins at her, completely undone, suddenly sure that this is what he wants. "Oh pfft. Date."

Before she can say anything else, a loud, obnoxious, and, in his case, a completely unwelcome voice is calling to them from across the room. The gig, as they say, is most definitely about to be up. "Sherlock?"

Mycroft is closing in on them, shock evident on his face. "Sherlock Holmes? What the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock winces. "Ah."

One of the Lords' sons turns to the man striding towards them, umbrella firmly at his side as always. "Is that…?"

Sherlock nods. "Yep." With an apologetic shrug at Molly, he whispers, "Time to go."

He grabs her hand and pulls her through the hall, dimly aware of the blue and red lights flashing through the window that tells of the arrival of the cops. Stopping only to grab his coat and her wrap and bag from the chair where he left them (not trusting them to the cloakroom for exactly this reason), he leads her out even as the police swarm in.

Pausing at the base of the steps, he shrugs into his coat, seeing Molly sling her wrap around her shoulders, a look his can't quite read across her face. Throwing all caution to the side, he turns to her with a glint in his eye. "So. That was fun. Shall we get some chips?"

* * *

II.

They were trapped. Trapped in a basement of an abandoned building, the door clicking shut behind them even as he pushed her further into the room, and the whole cliché of the moment almost choking him. Except that was impossible, and the thought of it must be deleted at once. After a while, the sounds from the floors above stop, and then there is a distant rumble of a car engine.

A large window to the left of him lets the light of the street light outside in, and falls over the door which has currently imprisoned them both. Taking some time to inspect the door, he realises the lock would be simple to disengage, would take him less than two minutes, he thought, but he had nothing with which to even start fumbling the mechanism with. He wished he had his lock picking tools with him, but they were in his Belstaff coat, and that was lying, discarded, along with his phone and her bag, on the floor above where he had thrown it aside once he caught sight of his pathologist tied to a chair.

He knows Lestrade knows where he had been headed, but he had been a good hour away from their current location, even with the aid of sirens. The way he can feel the coldness of the room, some kind of industrial fridge, possibly a slaughterhouse, he thinks, seep into his body through his jacket, not to mention the way her bare arms are shaking, makes him think they might not have that long before hyperthermia kicks in.

He shrugs off his jacket, pulling it tight against her chilled skin, desperate for anything to keep her warm, before he starts surveying the floor for anything he might be able to use to help them get out of this room. And then Molly is there, pulling on his arm, and he turns to find her, arm outstretched, her hair down, falling around her shoulders in waves, and he blinks.

Because when he had stormed in, intent on rescuing her, uncaring that he was alone and unarmed, only to hear shouting as soon as her arms were free (leading to a chase though the warehouse and into the basement they now find themselves in), he had noticed her hair was up in some fancy twisted braid thing.

His eyes focus on what she is proffering, and he feels his heart leap. The words are muttered without any thought, but as soon as he says them, he knows how much he wishes them to be true. "Oh my god, you have to marry me."

Either through a blessing or a curse, he has yet to decide which, she does not hear him, instead only offers him her hair grips once more. He sees she has already opened one fully, and he takes them from her with a small smile.

One minute and twenty seconds later (a personal best) they are out of the basement and up the stairs, back into the room he had found her gagged and tied to a chair. His coat is still where he left it, and he shrugs it on, hands diving in to the pockets to find his phone is still there. Pulling it free, he speed dials Gavin, holding the phone to his ear as he waits for the detective to answer.

With a gentle hand at her back, he guides her to the door he had come in through, hearing Lestrade finally pick up on the other end.

"I've got her."

He hears the sigh of relief over the line.

"They got away, however."

"Right." He hears Lestrade sigh. "What do you need?"

"You to work the scene, and try not to cock it up."

"What about you?"

With a soft look at the woman still by his side, dwarfed as she is in his suit jacket, he sighs. "I'm taking Molly home."

He can see the nod in Gavin's voice. "Right. Yeah." There is a pause, and then the detective is back. "We'll get them, Sherlock. They'll be rotting in a jail cell before tomorrows through."

The tone Sherlock uses can only be called feral. "You'll have to make sure you get to them before I do, then."

"I didn't hear that." With a click, the phone goes dead in his hand.

Gently, he wraps his arms around Molly's waist, pulling her to his side, secretly grateful when she rests some of her weight against him.

Five minutes later they are back on a main road, and he manages to flag down a passing cab almost instantly. Giving the driver her address, he pauses when her soft voice says, "No. 221 Baker Street."

The cab pulls away from the curb, and she leans against him for a moment, before shyly looks at him. "That is, if that's ok?"

Sherlock just nods, and pulls her closer.

* * *

III.

He wakes up in a haze, knowing today is a truly, wonderful day, and morphine is a truly, wonderful drug.

It calms his mind, makes his thoughts just _stop_ , and that he isn't even in trouble for indulging in it this time is just so completely wonderful he think he might _sing_.

There is a nagging part of his brain that is telling him this assessment may not be completely accurate, but the rest of him is just so peaceful he really can't bring himself to care. He falls back asleep with a smile on his face.

When he wakes again, there is a fire in his side and the memories come back with a jolt. John. Chase. Gun. Blood.

Ah.

So maybe not such a wonderful day after all.

Hands fumbling for the button by his side, his fingers encounter another hand covering his morphine pump. He want to push them away, desperate for the relief the drug will bring, but before he can there is a hiss and a blessed calm in his system once more. He lets the fire dull down before trying to ascertain the identity of his mystery drug giver, and when he opens his eyes he sees not one, but two of his, well, friends, by his side.

John was expected, but it was Molly who was in control of his pump. He shouldn't be surprised, but finds that he is. Slightly.

Her eyes are bloodshot, and he can't tell if it is from crying or from tiredness, and that in itself is annoying. Because if there is one person he can always read, it is Molly Hooper.

He tries to give her a grin, but her answering tightening of her lips makes him think he has fallen well short. Ah well, he should get points for trying.

"Hey." Her voice cracks on the word, and his heartrate speeds up slightly. Something that is told to all the world by the monitor at his side.

"Hi."

"How you feeling, mate?" Ah John. Always with the asinine questions.

"Like I got shot." And then, because he can, he sticks his tongue out. He's snarky, and cranky, and his side fucking hurts. Sue him.

"Sherlock." This soft reprimand comes from the woman at his bedside, and he pouts at her a little.

"In pain." Molly sighs, before looking over the readouts on the monitor. She must come to some sort of decision, because, even though he expects her to leave him in a sea of pain and agony, she depresses the morphine pump once more, wariness in her eyes.

Not that he can really blame her; the last time he was given morphine in hospital it was her he took his anger out on when they took it away. He promises himself he will do better this time.

In fact… "Thanks, Molly."

There is a slight slur to his voice, and he sees her blink at him in response. He's not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

"It's only for the next 24 hours."

Her tone is no-nonsense, and he finds he cannot really argue with her. Not while he's surfing this cloud of docility. "You're the best."

He tries to wink, to smile, but he knows it comes out somewhat… loopy. She gives a small tiff of laughter anyway, and as that was close to the reaction he was going for, he's calling it a win.

"What about me?" John's voice is indignant, and Sherlock cannot help the sigh at his annoying friend.

"You got me shot."

He's not sure, actually. That part of the chase is a little… hazy. But given John is standing there not injured, whereas he is lying in the bed with a gaping hole in his side, he's going to go out on a limb and say this is John's fault.

"You pushed me out the way, you idiot."

Oh. Apparently he was being noble. How… odd.

He tries to shrug, but it does nothing but pull on his side, and he winces. He looks hopefully at the person currently in charge of his drugs, but she shakes her head this time. He pouts, but it has absolutely zero effect on her, so he gives up.

"In a bit." Is what she says, and he supposes that will just have to do, so he smiles at her, pleased this time that his facial muscles seem to be finally getting with the programme and doing what he demands of them.

"Still the best," he mumbles, and this time John just rolls his eyes at him.

He feels his energy failing, but fights it, wanting to stay awake as long as possible. His body, it seems, is amped on betraying him however because even as he fights to keep his eyes open they fall shut.

With supreme effort, he blinks himself awake, and sees out the corner of his eye Molly reaching for his morphine pump again. The pull of the drug induced oblivion is calling to him, and he sighs. She's perfect, and he's definitely going to have to marry her, he thinks.

As his eyes finally fall shut, he doesn't see her own eyes go wide as saucers, completely unaware he's spoken the thought aloud.

* * *

IV.

A startled cry brings his attention from the bar and to where some guy is pressing Molly against a wall, and he sees the fear in her frame even from where he is standing. He is across the room and landing the punch in five seconds. As the thug stumbles back, he sees Molly edge backwards, away from the brute and towards him. Reaching out, he is glad when her slim hand falls into his, and he draws her to his side.

"You ok?"

Molly nods, eyes not looking at him, a quiet, "Yeah, thanks," on her lips.

"What the hell?" The bastard that attacked her seems to have recovered, and pushes towards her again.

Sherlock, now standing between the thug and Molly, pushing him back, before moving into his space. With a growl, he hisses, "She's taken." It might not be the most chivalrous thing to say, and he's sure to get hell off her later that night, but right now he really doesn't give a shit.

The thug peers round his shoulder menacingly, eyes tracking over her with obvious lust. "Yeah? I don't see no ring."

Sherlock blinks, truly perplexed. "What has that got to do with anything?"

The bastard sneers up at him. "No ring means she's fair game." Glancing around, as if looking for back up, he then turns his attention back to Sherlock. "She's just like the rest of them."

Drawing himself up to his full height, an impressive eight inches more than the idiot before him, Sherlock gives him a cold, hard stare. "I can assure you, she most definitely is not."

The thug glancing behind him again, and he can feel Molly press closer to his back, a slight tremble in her frame. "She's dressed like a whore, obviously gagging for it."

Sherlock pushes the git away from him, from Molly, and back up against the wall. Arm up against his throat, he holds him there, cutting off his air supply, control all but gone. "Say that again."

"Sherlock…"

Despite gasping for air, and really not comprehending just how much up shit creek he is, the thug manages to cackle. "Ooooh, gonna let her fight your battle for you? What sort of a man are you?"

"Sherlock, please." The tug on his arm is becoming more insistent, and he loosens his grip slightly.

The thug's tone turns mocking. "Sherlock please." Eyes hard, he glances at Molly once more. With a leer, he growls, "He ain't man enough for you, sweetheart."

This time, it is her who lands the punch. Sherlock finds he is, well, pleased just doesn't cover it.

Before anything can escalate further, a new voice interrupts. "What's going on here?"

The three of them turn to see a cop pushing his way through the crowd. Annoyingly, it is the brute who speaks first. The threatening tone disappears in a second, and instead is replaced by a tremble. "You gotta help me, officer. I was just introducing myself all friendly like, and then he came out of nowhere and started laying into me."

"That's not true."  
"You lying scumbag."

Both Molly and Sherlock speak over each other, the latter still holding the bastard against the wall.

The cop looks over the two of them, before turning back to the amassed crowd. "Anyone see what happened?"

A bystander steps forward. Nodding his head to Sherlock, he states, "He was protecting his girl."

"His girl?"

"Fiancée." Sherlock corrects.

"Fiancée?" The cop glances over to Molly, before assessing him once more.

Sherlock does not back down. "Yes."

The cop focuses on her hand. "I don't see a ring…"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He just cannot help himself. "Well, I've only just bloody asked."

He spots Molly's eyes widening, and, with his own, begs her to just go along with it, sure it is their best way of getting out of this without handcuffs.

The cops sighs. "Look. I'm going to have to ask you to leave, and you're going to be barred from here. Protecting her or not, you're still fighting in a public place, and I could charge you."

"No problem."

Sherlock nods, before taking Molly's hand in his. Together, they exit the pub before anything else can be said and they end up in the back of a police car anyway, and he feels Molly shaking against him.

Pushing her away slightly, he goes to apologise, before seeing her eyes lighting up with her barely controlled mirth.

"You know," she giggles, "John's never going to believe that you got out of being arrested by pretending to propose to me." She takes his arm again, and they start down the street once more.

She doesn't look at him again, focusing more on her foot placement, and so doesn't see his eyes, and does not see his thoughts.

It appears he has some shopping to do.

* * *

V. (and I.)

They have been out for a meal, an actual proper meal and not cover for a stake out (apparently doing that as a date is a bit not good) and are now walking, arm in arm, enjoying the evening air. Well, she appears to be enjoying it, anyway.

He, on the other hand, is nervous.

Actually, _completely bloody petrified_ would be the more accurate description.

His hands are fumbling, constantly playing with the cuffs of his suit jacket (his Belstaff lying over her shoulders to protect her from the cold) and it is so unlike him he wonders how she hasn't already noticed.

Trying to distract her, he guides her into the warmth of a nearby pub, but he only lasts one whiskey while she visits the ladies room before the oppressing air forces them outside once more.

And now, she does notice his fumbling.

Taking his hand in hers, she leads him along the banks of the Thames a little way, before settling down on one of the benches that line the embankment. Still cradling his hand, she asks, "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

But he should have learnt by now not to underestimate her, or at least not to lie to her, and she gives him an admonishing look.

"Little nervous," he offers her after a moment, accompanying the words with a shy smile.

Her hands still playing with his fingers, she asks, "What about?"

Sherlock looks down at their joint hands. "You… I mean, you're happy, right?"

Her finger stop moving. "Happy?"

He chances a glance at her, before looking away. "With, with me. This." He sends another quick look at her face. "Us."

She smiles, her hands moving against his once more. It's a little distracting. "Of course I am."

"Right." He nods. "Right, that's, that's good."

He falls silent again.

Absently, she lets one hand edge down her leg and starts rubbing her feet. The walk wasn't planned, and she had decided to wear heels that were slightly higher than what she would normally wear on this occasion, and he can tell she must be beginning to feel the pinch. Before she can ask if they can start back home, he continues.

"And you don't mind," Again he looks at her profile, "I mean, the experiments, the cases, they don't bother you?"

She nudges his shoulder with her own, a slight tease in her voice. "I've known you for ten years, Sherlock."

He nods again. "Right. Yes. Of course."

He falls silent again. A gust of wind brushes over them, and she shivers, despite the added warmth he knows his coat provides.

Holding his hand with one of hers, she rests the other on his face, tracing over his cheekbone. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

He sighs, turning his head slightly, and her hand falls back to her lap. "I just… I'm not."

"Not what?"

He shakes his head. "Not happy."

"Oh. I thought…" He hears her voice hitch, and he runs his words back through his mind, and then freezes. She goes to stand, her hands falling to tuck into the pockets of his Belstaff, and he panics.

"No!" Still manic, but trying to calm his voice, he begs, "No, wait." His hand grabs her nearest one, stilling her movement, and he tugs her back round so she is facing him once more. "That came out wrong. You… I… bugger." He drops his head, muttering, "I knew I was going to completely cock this up."

"Sherlock?"

He looks at her, fierce determination in his eyes. "I'm happy. I love you, and I'm so completely happy, and you are everything in the world to me, and it makes me so fucking scared, because I keep waiting for it all to fall apart."

She shakes her head, lip caught between her teeth, and it makes his heart stutter. "I don't… I don't understand."

"No. No, neither do I." he sighs, shaking his head. "Look, sorry. I'm sorry. Let's just, go home, yeah?" He tries to smile at her, but thinks it comes out more like a grimace. "Let's go home and I'll spend the next few hours making up for my foot constantly being in mouth and saying the exact wrong thing…" he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "If you… that is, if you want to?"

She smiles, and he lets out a huff.

"Marry me."

Her voice has a undercurrent of mirth in it, and he freezes, shock written all over his face. "What?"

"Marry me." This time, her voice is sure.

And then he turns, and she is holding a small, square box. It is familiar, so familiar, in fact, it is all he can do to flick his stare between her hand and her face.

"Molly…"

She is still smiling that smile that, if it were anatomically possible, makes his heart do summersaults. "I mean, that's what today, tonight, all this, was about, right?"

He is still staring at the small box in her hand. "How did you…"

She winks at him. "Found it in your coat pocket while I was in the pub toilets."

"I, uh…"

Her face falls. "Unless you don't…"

"No!" He snatches the box from her, and he sees a tear brimming at the corner of her eye.

Before she can stand, however, he is by her side, dropping to one knee, completely oblivious to the wind and the dampness of the ground beneath his feet.

Popping the lid of the box that has been haunting him for the past week, (ever since she signed for the fucking thing without knowing what it even was, an event that had him on the cusp on a panic attack for an hour until she had managed to assure him she hadn't opened it), he turns it so she can see the ring. The single solitaire on the thin platinum band has an understated beauty that he can see she spots instantly.

"Oh."

"Molly Hooper," he begins, then stops. Because now that the moment is here, he has no idea what to do next. He shakes his head at her, fighting every instinct he has that is telling him to run. He is fed up of running from this. From her. "Of all the words at my disposal, in all the languages in the world, I can only think of four I want to say right now. Will you marry me?"

She is smiling, tears falling down, but her smile is what he is focused on. That, and her words when she gasps, "Yes. Of course. Yes."

He smiles, and slips the ring on her finger, before reaching up and latching his mouth on to hers. Pulling back, she gives him a wink.

"Now. About those plans you mentioned…"

He grins, and lets out a small laugh. Happy and boyish, and so completely full of feelings he cannot speak. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet, before pulling her up to his. Arm in arm they walk back along the river bank, her head resting on his shoulder.

For the first time in his life, he feels he is right where he belongs.

* * *

End.

A/N 2: This last snippet was inspired by my little sister's tale of her own engagement while on holiday in Prague, only with slightly less Sherlock. Congratulations, sis, you deserve all the happiness in the world.

Thoughts?


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